The Wheel of Stars
by Saucery
Summary: A Star Trek fusion. Snape is a half-Vulcan with intimacy issues, and being forced to mind-meld with Harry Potter, Golden Boy of the Alpha Quadrant, doesn't help matters. Or does it? A grand adventure set in space, with new wars and old enemies. SLASH.


**THE WHEEL OF STARS**

**- Chapter I -  
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**Once Upon a Spacetime  
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The landing bay was crowded with all manner of species - Human, Betazoid, Trill and Andorian. Ferengi peddlers wove in and out of the throng, nasal voices pitched high and selling all kinds of 'authentic' Starfleet memorabilia - and wait a minute, was that a...?

"Bloody hell," breathed Rohn beside him. "That's a working model of the _Enterprise_! Original issue! Isn't that more than two hundred years old?"

"More like two hours old," muttered Harry. "That Ferengi must've hacked into the specifications database and - "

" - replicated it. Yeah." A moment of silence, after which Rohn said, "Er. Isn't that illegal?"

"'Course it is, Rohn."

"Shouldn't we report it?"

"What for?" Harry leaned over the edge of the landing bay balcony, looking down at Hermione's shuttle as it docked. "It'll take us half a day to lodge all the stupid complaint forms, and by then, the Ferengi would've disappeared, anyway."

"Someone should do something about this," Rohn said, darkly. "Selling pirated models of the _Enterprise_ - it's like, I don't know. Sacrilege, or something."

Harry snorted. "You and your gigantic Kirk-crush, Rohn. It's almost as bad as your Krum-crush..."

"They're not crushes!" Rohn protested vehemently, his freckled eye-ridges turning red. "They're manly - um - admirations! Aspirations. Krum's the greatest pilot _ever_, and Kirk's - well, the greatest captain ever..."

"Or maybe you just have a thing for the letter 'K'? Doesn't explain your thing for Hermione, though."

"_Harry!_"

"Right, right." Harry clapped him on the shoulder, chortling. "Sorry."

"You don't _look_ sorry."

Thankfully, before Rohn could go on one of his trademark sulks, Hermione's shuttle began disembarking. A dozen passengers piled out, lugging baggage and looking askance at the commotion around them; Harry noted that a few were held up by Customs bots, but most were allowed to pass the scan-point and enter the landing bay proper. And even _there_, the entrance gate was choked with people from other shuttles; they exited in a slow-moving crush, pulsing out in groups of four or five, like blood from a sluggish artery. A holographic sign reading 'Platform 9 3/4' revolved above their heads; it flickered, either because the influx was putting a strain on the station's capacitors, or because there were psynergists among the passengers - those species that were electrically charged, and inadvertently ended up affecting magnetic fields. _Never give one of those a ride, Harry_, his godfather, Siriyas, had said, stroking the flanks of his beloved airbike. _Anything they're on's a bitch to navigate_.

"Crazily busy, isn't it?" Rohn boggled at the winding queues.

"Start of the academic year," Harry shrugged. "It's mostly students down there." Seeing some of the younger faces made Harry kind of nostalgic, remembering how huge and overwhelming everything had been for him as a first-year.

Even now, 9 3/4 was the busiest landing bay on Theta L2, the space station a mere ten light years away from Hol Quartz. Being the only campus of the Starfleet Academy ever to be established in the Beta Quadrant - typically non-Federation territory - Hol Quartz was something of a fortress, and students had to converge on this platform from all over the galaxy, before taking a secure starship to the campus itself. No _wonder_ Hermione's shuttle had been late coming in, given the backlog of ships that was keeping the docks busy.

Finally, the queues cleared up a bit, and the passengers from Hermione's shuttle passed the gate.

"Where's Hermione?" Rohn scanned the new arrivals.

"There," pointed Harry, having spotted a particularly bushy head of hair moving determinedly through the crowd. As if sensing their presence, Hermione looked up at them and waved, her face glowing with excitement. She was wearing an unusually decorative Bajoran skirt, and what appeared to be Bajoran jewelry.

"She looks... um, different." Rohn kept his eyes glued to her as she ascended the turbo-lift. "Really girly, don't you think?"

"Rohn, she _is_ a girl."

"Yeah." Rohn swallowed. "Er."

"Try not to be to be _too_ obvious," Harry whispered, as Hermione's turbo-lift opened onto the balcony.

"Obvious about what?" Rohn was starting to sound indignant - but then Hermione stepped out of the lift, and his eye-ridges went red again.

"Rohn! Harry!" Hermione barreled towards them like a Terybdian tornado, dropping her bags on the floor as she leapt upon them and wrapped them in a fierce, smothering hug. "I've missed you!"

"I can see that," wheezed Harry - really, girly or not, Hermione could strangle the life out of a man.

Finally, she let them go, but kept her arms twined with theirs. "When did you two get here? Was it the last shuttle?"

"No, the one before that. How was Bajor?"

Hermione bounced on her feet. "Brilliant! You won't believe the things I got to see - ancient scriptures, temple documents, libraries the size of _cities_..."

"Good thing you got picked for the exchange program, then."

"What do you mean, good? Of _course_ I'd get picked! No one else had grades nearly good enough to qualify! And my essay on the ethics of Bajoran bioarcheology was the best of the lot!"

"Right, right," said Harry, in much the same tone he'd used on Rohn.

Come to think of it - why _wasn't_ Rohn saying anything?

"Uh," said Rohn, when Harry raised expectant eyebrows at him. "Hullo, H-Hermione." He looked exquisitely uncomfortable, and Harry realized that Hermione's chest was brushing Rohn's arm. Rohn looked about ready to combust, his face was so red. Even his ginger hair paled in comparison.

Hermione frowned up at him. "Are you okay, Rohn? You look feverish."

"I'm," croaked Rohn, sounding choked. "F-fine. I just. Chest."

"What?"

"Chest flu," Harry interjected, with the alacrity of a warp-speed evasive maneuver. "Rohn caught a bad case of it on the way back. He's still, er. Recovering."

Rohn shot him a pathetically grateful look, and wormed out of Hermione's embrace.

"That's horrible," said Hermione, concern marring her features. "Catching a flu right at the start of the year..." Then, a familiar suspicion narrowed her eyes. "But I bet you did something stupid to get that flu, didn't you?"

"Why would I have done something stupid?" Rohn demanded, apparently back to his normal self now that no girl-parts were touching him.

"Because the _last_ time you caught a flu, you'd gone skinny-dipping in the Selarian Ski Holosuite. With equally naked, holographic ski instructors. _Female_ ski instructors."

Rohn's mouth dropped open. His expression had gone right past horrified to utterly pole-axed. "How'd you know about that?"

Hermione tossed her hair. "I know _everything_."

"That I tell you," Harry amended, and the look Rohn shot him this time was one of wounded betrayal.

"Traitor," accused Rohn, but Harry only smirked. He'd like to see _Rohn_ survive one of Hermione's interrogation sessions. Honestly, she'd be great in Intelligence, if she weren't so hell-bent on becoming a career diplomat.

"Now," said Hermione, tugging on Rohn's arm, "we're going to the sickbay. You need a check-up."

"No, I don't," said Rohn, trying to pull free again.

"Yes, you do." Hermione's voice brooked no argument.

Harry smiled and shook his head. He wondered when Rohn would realize why all of Hermione's interrogations were about _him_, and when Hermione would realize that, Selarian holograms aside, Rohn had been mad for her ever since fourth year.

He trailed behind them, carrying his own luggage and noting how Rohn automatically hefted Hermione's, without even being asked to. There was a carefulness about Rohn, now, a certain awkward chivalry, as though Hermione had suddenly transformed from a friendly non-gendered entity into a Girl, with a capital G.

It was hilarious. It was weird. And it made Harry feel just a little bit lonely.

But that was ridiculous. He was happy that his two best mates were getting together - that Rohn was finally growing conscious of his feelings, and that, with time, Hermione would grow conscious of them, too.

_We're all friends_, Harry reasoned, as they reached the station's sickbay. _Practically family. So it's all right if two of those friends become a couple, right?_

Right. Except that Harry had never really known a family, and he wasn't sure what it took - or didn't take - for a family of friends to survive.

"Oi, Harry!" Rohn called back to him. "You traitor! You owe me dinner!"

Harry grinned, suddenly feeling like a berk for thinking those stupid thoughts. Of _course_ they were family. And always would be. "You owe me, too! For the chest flu!"

Rohn promptly blushed - but then Hermione was herding him into the sickbay, and Harry snickered as Rohn tried to explain to the doctor why his fever wasn't actually a fever, and why his chest flu wasn't actually that bad.

"What'd you mean, he owes you for the flu?" Hermione asked Harry, later, as the doctor jabbed Rohn with an unnecessary hypospray. "You couldn't have passed it to him. Human flu can't be passed to Talaxians, can it? They're completely different strains."

"Hm," said Harry non-commitally, recalling the new Wired Sisters hit, _Love is a Virus_. "Talaxians aren't immune to _all _Human strains."

* * *

Here, sealed in the transparent, glittering envelope of space, Snape was nothing more than a message passed from one master to another - a letter scrawled in indecipherable code, a bottle bobbing in the ever-shifting currents of a hypersea. No ships would happen upon him here, unless granted permission by the Fidelius forcefields - here, at Grimmauld Point, the meeting place for undercover Federation spies.

All too often, Snape reported in when others were present - Shakal-Bault of the Klingons, whose eyes slid over Snape with deliberate unseeingness - or Tonks of the Metamorphs, who felt mysteriously compelled to make idle pleasantries. (Klingon caution was at least understandable; Snape couldn't begin to fathom the Morphs' illogical need for sociability.)

No, Snape did not look forward to encountering his peers. He preferred the after-hours shift, when the viewport was deserted and he could stand there at his leisure - looking out into the endless night, with nothing but 3.4 feet of bulkhead and 2.8 feet of reinforced shielding to keep the crushing vacuum at bay.

Such was today's shift, and when the doors to the viewport hissed open at 0310 hours Standard, Snape didn't turn around to see who it was. Albus Dumbledore's mental presence was as powerful as ever - even as a mere half-Vulcan telepath, Snape felt the old frission stir his mind.

"I have nothing to report," Snape said, "save that Noth and his son have now joined the movement."

Behind him, there was a familiar, regretful sigh. "That is unfortunate," Dumbledore murmured. "Theyo had a promising future."

"He still has a promising future." Snape folded his hands behind his back - a habit from his days as a young cadet under Dumbledore's command. "We might yet save him." _As I was saved._ "Use him." _As I was used._

"Has he been Marked?"

Snape paused. "Yes." To be Marked meant to kill, after all - to become one of the Death Eaters, one had to eat death. Theyo Noth was now a murderer. A mere teenaged boy, an _infant_. All because of his father's xenophobic delusions. Delusions that Snape had, at one point, shared. It had all seemed so logical, then. Survival of the fittest.

"The victim?"

"A female Betazoid." _Child_. "Fourteen years old." _Broken_. "Tortured for 23 minutes, after which she lost consciousness." _Illogical. Just kill her._ "Theyo was then ordered to execute her, and use the LifeTrap to consume her energy."

"Did the device work?"

"Yes." Snape's hands had tightened into knots behind his back; he eased them. "Eventually. Then, Theyo retired to a corner and vomited. I offered him a relaxant; his father told him he was a disgrace."

"The Noths are a proud family."

"A stupid family." The word startled him; it was unusual for him to use such emotive expressions. Value judgments. Anything that emphasized qualities over quantities. "The ritual lasted a little over 2 hours, 13 minutes and 44 seconds," he resumed, returning to the sanity of numbers. "Both Noths are now fully inducted. I instructed Noth Junior on the finer points subterfuge, including skin-shields to hide his Mark, so that none at Starfleet may discover his allegiance."

"Hm." A rustle implying that Dumbledore was stroking his beard. "It will comfort him, no doubt, that his Head of House can be his confidant at the Academy."

Comfort? An alien concept. Rather than being 'comforted', Snape deduced that Theyo would only feel cornered by the presence of another Death Eater at his school; he would never be free of the shadow of what he had done, in killing that Betazoid, and looking at Snape would only remind him of it. Had Snape not been present at Starfleet, Theyo might have lulled himself into forgetfulness - _I did not do this, I am not this_. Familiar words. When had he said them to himself, last? During a meditation? Or during a murder?

"Severus?"

Snape ignored the use of his Human name. Dumbledore had always expressed a strange fondness for it, perhaps mistaking it for a sign of intimacy; Snape himself neither used it nor identified with it, because of its tactical disadvantages in a society where purity of blood was a valuable commodity. "I expressly forbade him from discussing any matters related to the Death Eaters at school. He will have no confidant in me - not while in the Academy."

"But during meetings...?"

"During meetings or during missions held by or conducted for the Dark Lord, I will act as his confidant. I will attempt to dissuade him from the cause, once I conclude that he will not compromise me, and that he will be an ally."

"So you think he could be one of us."

"Yes. With time." Theyo was too young to be a double agent. Yet. But not too young to be groomed as one - to be cultivated into a double tongue, like the one spoken of in ancient Terran myths, given to inscrutable prophets and prophetesses. An intelligence agent had to become a master of inscrutability. As it stood, Theyo was anything but. "Based on my calculations, there is a 58.9% chance that Theyo will eventually seek or consider defection, with an error margin of 3.1%. Should that time arrive, we will be able to offer him double agency as an alternative."

There was a silence.

In the quietness, Dumbledore finally came to stand beside him. Snape was not so oblivious to Human mannerisms as to not have noticed that, for Dumbledore, this was a kind of consideration; apparently, he thought that mission reports were distressing for Snape, and that, immediately after a mission, Snape found it difficult or even traumatic to make eye-contact with other sentient beings.

It was irrational for Dumbledore to be so concerned about an inevitable situation. Such concerns were groundless; Snape did not feel traumatized by necessities.

"Harry is returning soon," Dumbledore said. "Have you given any thought to what we had spoken of earlier?"

Snape closed his eyes. Opened them. "I meditated on it. Potter's newfound telepathic abilities are rare for his species, limited at only 1 known case of Human telepathy in every 1.6 generations. You," and here, Snape finally turned to face Dumbledore, "were the last known case, and Potter's abilities - albeit at the nascent stage - are soon likely to outstrip yours."

"We need to train him."

"Yes."

"And you do know it has to be you that trains him, Severus?" Dumbledore's voice was gentle. "If you are prepared."

Snape reflected that it was a logical impossibility to be 'prepared' for anything Harry Potter might wreak upon the universe. The past few years had taught him that; Potter's actions almost always lay outside the bounds of statistical probability. "I understand the necessity of training him, lest his powers cause unintended damage; he might induce brain injury in his peers, should he continue to develop unsupervised. He is largely unaware of his own potential at the moment, but that will change; when it does, he should be equipped to handle the physiological and psychological side-effects. But there is an additional motivation for teaching him, aside from his own health and the health of his cohorts. Instructing him in telepathic warfare will also vastly improve our chances of defeating the Dark Lord; Potter's telepathy might yet be our best weapon. And yet, his link to the Dark Lord via his scar may also be our worst vulnerability; hence, an even greater need to train him."

"You _have_ meditated on it." Dumbledore looked pleased. "I was afraid that your dislike of Harry might prevent you from teaching him."

"Dislike is an illogical sentiment. It has no bearing on my conduct."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

Snape raised an eyebrow of his own.

"Ahem," Dumbledore coughed. "I see. Very well, then. I would not burden you with this, Severus, given your numerous duties and the excellent work you are already doing; however, there is simply no one else on the Hol Quartz staff that is telepathically gifted. Well, I am, but as you know, I cannot provide the manner of meld that you, as a Vulcan, can provide to Harry. It will fortify him until he is ready to shield his mind on his own."

Snape experienced a peculiar sensation - a tightening of his abdominal muscles - that bore some similarity to the Human psychosomatic reaction to 'fear', but Snape disregarded it. He had never indulged his Human side. "A mind-meld is necessary, but Potter might find it undesirable. Should he resist, I will refer him to you; you may then convince him of his need to form a meld with me."

Dumbledore was giving him a shrewd look, that, had Snape been any younger or less experienced, might have amounted to a Legilimency assault. As it was, Snape felt the barest push at the outskirts of his mind, quick to retreat. "And you, Severus? Do you find it undesirable?"

"Desire is an illogical - "

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore waved Snape's statement aside, "and illogical sentiments have no bearing on your conduct. But your outer conduct is not your _inner self_, Severus. I need to know. Will you be able to do this?"

"I always have followed, and always will follow, your orders to the exact letter."

"That isn't what I'm asking, Severus, and you know it."

Snape wondered whether Dumbledore would ever tire of attempting to elicit an emotional response from him. It resembled Auror Tonks' almost compulsive campaign to rouse him into laughter. "I will be able to do this," Snape replied, "and will have no difficulty doing it."

Dumbledore eyed him narrowly. "You're as much of a dissembler as ever."

"One may infer, based on certain logical assumptions regarding tutelage, that I 'learned from the best'." That was the Terran idiom, was it not?

"Ha! Yes." A smile crinkled Dumbledore's mouth, lifting his beard along with it. "You were always an apt pupil, Severus. Stellar, even."

Snape inclined his head.

"I'll talk to Harry before sending him down to you, shall I? I truly am sorry; I know you must be tired after your recent mission, but you ought to start teaching him as soon as term starts."

There was another Terran idiom that sprang, suddenly, to mind: 'Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.' It was an irrational association; Snape dismissed it. "I will comply."

* * *

Red fabric stretched across Harry's shoulders, a little too well-fitted for his comfort, and Harry resisted the urge to twitch against it. It felt odd to be wearing the Starfleet uniform again, after a summer of lounging about the Veasli household in Dudley's oversized T-shirts and shorts. Rohn, himself the inheritor of five brothers' clothes, had never remarked on the miserable state of Harry's hand-me-downs - but Mrs. Veasli kept trying to remedy Harry's situation with hand-knitted tunics, none of which actually fit Harry any better, bless her soul.

"Why, if it isn't Potter," said a sneering voice behind him, and Harry turned to see Drakho Maulfai's smug, hateful face. "Twitching like a thrulcarp out of water, I see. Perhaps civilized society's too much for you. Still not at home in the Academy?"

Rohn spoke up before Harry even had a chance to. "More at home in it than _you_ are, you Romulan spy."

Maulfai feigned a hurt expression. "Ah, _Veasli_. How your words wound me! It seems that your poor, pathetic family was too busy breeding like the rodents they are, and failed to educate you about the details of the Romulan-Federation truce. _Do_ try to avoid accusing innocent cadets of espionage."

"You shut up about my family," hissed Rohn, clenching his fists. "At least mine isn't a bunch of murdering, filthy - "

"Filthy? _You're_ the one whose uniform has holes in it, Veasli. Can't afford one of your own, with all the other ratty siblings that preceded you?"

Rohn's hand flew to his phaser - but Harry stopped him, his fingers tight on Rohn's arm.

"He isn't worth it, Rohn," said Harry, well aware that his voice had dropped to the icy registers it tended to do, around Maulfai. "You're worth a thousand of him."

"Well, obviously." Maulfai's mouth acquired an ugly twist; the tips of his pointed ears went green. "Just as a Galleon is worth a thousand Knuts."

"Don't flatter yourself," Harry said. "And don't think that just because I'm not drawing a phaser on you now, I won't when the time calls for it. And it _will_ call for it."

"Bloody right," growled Rohn, as if he couldn't wait for that time. "We'll get you, Maulfai."

Maulfai's eyes were a cold, reptilian grey. "Oh, I'm _scared_. What'll you do, stun me? That's all your phasers are capable of, you know."

"Not if we calibrate them," Rohn said, with a nasty look of his own. Granted, among them, only Hermione had the skills and the knowledge to calibrate their phasers, and she'd never do it in the first place, but Harry had to admit that the very thought was appealing.

"I'll be watching you, Maulfai." Harry stepped closer to him, until they were toe-to-toe. "No matter what you do, I'll be watching you."

"I'm flattered," Maulfai returned smoothly. "You might be my most persistent suitor yet."

Harry blinked. "Wha - "

Still smiling his reptilian smile, Maulfai turned and began making his way to the Slytherin table. "Just don't get caught at it, Potter. Stalking is illegal."

Both Rohn and Harry stared after him.

"He's barmy," said Rohn.

"Mental," added Harry.

"_Certifiable_," said Rohn. And, after a pause: "Suitor? What the hell is he - "

"Romulan mating rituals are different," said Harry. "I think."

A new term at Starfleet had begun.

* * *

**fin.**

* * *

**Notes:**

For greater verisimilitude, I have "translated" certain characters' names into Trekspeak. Therefore, Ron Weasley is now Rohn Veasli, a gregarious Talaxian and devoted friend; Draco Malfoy is now Drakho Maulfai, a pureblood Romulan with a superiority complex, and Snape is - well, he's still _Snape_, still very much a half-blood and a conflicted hero, except that he's a Vulcan now, so his conflict is repressed like whoa. (Which, if you think about it, makes it even _worse_. Because Snape has to do nasty stuff for the Death Eaters and pretend, _even to himself_, that it doesn't destroy him emotionally; Vulcans don't acknowledge emotion, after all. But not to acknowledge emotion under _those_ circumstances? Is fucked up, y'all.)

And as for the Spock-Snape equivalency...

Come on, don't tell me you didn't notice the similarities between Snape and Spock! What with the monosyllabic S-names, the perpetually raised eyebrows, the halfbreed status, the _outcast_ status, the emotional repression, the anger management issues, the intimacy issues, the _Mommy_ issues, the dark hairstyles, the dark _eyes_, the precise intonations, and last but certainly not least, the towering intellects. Seriously. Writing a _Star Trek_ fusion with Snape in it? Piece of cake.

Unfortunately, I can't provide links or embedded pictures on , but I _can_ encourage you to do a Google "image search" for Talaxians, if you want a rough idea of what Rohn looks like. As for the Romulans, well, they look almost indistinguishable from the Vulcans, apart from the fact that they're more emotionally expressive. Imagine Drakho as a blond Vulcan, and you've got a pretty good idea of what he looks like. (I just heard fangirl hearts exploding across the planet, didn't I? Why, yes, pointy ears _are_ that hot.)

Please review if you want more!


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